


Secrets and Lies

by levitatethis



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Reality, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-18
Updated: 2010-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:21:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levitatethis/pseuds/levitatethis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Having a secret relationship does not come easy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secrets and Lies

_So come over, just be patient, and don't worry.   
And don't worry.   
No I don't wanna battle from beginning to end;   
I don't wanna cycle, recycle revenge;   
I don't wanna follow death and all his friends._   
**-Coldplay, **_**Death and All His Friends**_

 

With some effort Mohinder awkwardly makes his way along the small aisle on the left side of the airplane towards the washrooms. Although most of the lights inside the aircraft are off (punctuated by the glow from various individual seat screens and emergency strips) encouraging the passengers to sleep, Mohinder finds it difficult to relax with his mind spinning at the nearly uncontrollable circumstances he finds himself in. He envies those who can slumber in a fit of carelessness.

Grabbing the tops of the aisle seats as he passes, using them to propel his body forward, he keeps his head bowed down and eyes straight ahead purposely avoiding the curiosity emanating from watchful eyes surely burning into his back. The desperate need for unfettered contemplation urges him along—he needs time to think.

Thankfully with most of the passengers asleep at the halfway point of the flight to Amsterdam it means the washrooms are free. He pushes his way into the first vacant one, blinking quickly in response to the harsh artificial light that glares at his entrance, and locks the door behind him. He considers lowering the toilet’s lid to sit down but decides that a splash of cool water on his face would do him better.

Mohinder runs the tap, refusing to stare at his reflection in the mirror just yet then makes a small cup with his hands to gather some water. Leaning down he throws it up against his face, feeling it soak the curls at the front of his forehead, and sighs. Not bothering to get paper towel or use the sleeve of his shirt to dry his face, he instead grips the edge of the counter and slowly wills his eyes up to his worse for wear reflection. He looks—

_Tired? Perturbed? Lost?_

Like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Muffling a laugh he muses that _that_ would be easier.

A quiet rapping against the door jolts his attention in time to see the lock slide out of place and the door push open. He begins to stand up straight as Sylar appears before him looking—

_Rushed? Uncertain? Demanding?_  
   
Like he knows why the caged bird sings.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Mohinder insists with a harsh whisper.

Sylar says nothing as he steps into the tight space, presumably using telekinesis to help close the door behind him. Mohinder stumbles when the back of his knees hit the toilet as Sylar presses ahead. Grabbing the back of Mohinder’s neck with a strong right hand, Sylar pulls him into an urgent kiss.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

It is their (not so little) secret.

For a long while Mohinder preferred it when they were caught up in a blistering debate, acting mutually dismissive in their irritation with one another for either not caring about the well being of others or being too emotionally invested; arguing theories once farfetched but (wondrously) realized, and hanging on the brink of almost throwing a punch or waving a powered index finger.

In those heated meltdowns he could tell himself that their intimate transgressions came out of nowhere, that there was no warning and certainly no rational reason for their being drawn together as closely as two people could be. Denial came in all shapes and sizes and he swallowed it whole.

In front of everyone else they played their expected parts—meticulous villainy hell bent on unparalleled perfection and prowess, and scattered scientist insistent on exploring and controlling the “undiscovered country.” Their sarcastic barbs were to be expected (given their history, after all) and therefore drew no skeptical attention. Their emphatic arguments seemed a natural extension of their personalities (after resistance and combativeness was tiredly set aside) and raised no red flags. All the while, where no one could see, an endless well of confused yet strident emotions and inflated feelings made overdramatic by the sheer lunacy of their unexpected reality ran deep.

Apart from one another, ignorance was (unconvincing) bliss. Mohinder could accept fucking Sylar when he woke up to an empty bed and cold sheets. The universe played out its role well, refusing to tease him with forcibly drawn out self-reflection. Mohinder could pretend.

Except for the whispered taunts.

He has come to like waking up with Sylar next to him, either wrapped up in each other’s limbs or with an invisible barrier between, just barely breached by one arm stretched out laboriously across it, lightly draped across the other’s waist, or one wayward foot rubbed gently up the other’s leg.   
These domestic scenarios have become more regular and after the minute of peace that floods calm over Mohinder when he first opens his eyes there comes the churning twist of his stomach that accompanies worry and concern. _They_ are a small part of a bigger picture that Mohinder is not sure they fit into.

Yet as trying as it is to make sense of, and as potentially devastating as the outcome may be, Mohinder finds he likes the complication. It makes every choice more meaningful.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ********** **

 

Trying not to melt into the kiss that Mohinder wants just as much, he uses his left hand to push Sylar back—though his resistance is betrayed by the way he holds his lips to Sylar’s until the last moment and the way he lingers his fingers on the collar of Sylar’s shirt.

“Are you mad?” Mohinder whispers with all authority while holding Sylar’s hazy gaze, the one he notices keeps slipping down to his lips. “You can’t just come in here. Someone may have seen you!”

“Two weeks, five days, six hours, twelve minutes, fourteen seconds,” Sylar rattles off huskily. “Fifteen seconds. Sixteen seconds.”

Sylar trails his right hand up to Mohinder’s which is still resting on his shirt and slides his fingers along the back of it, softly tracing every bump and ridge that curves the otherwise smooth skin. Taking a deep breath, Sylar straightens his posture but his intent to tower over while pushing slightly forward and decreasing the breathing room between them is not lost on Mohinder.

“I think we’ve let _them_ have enough of our time, don’t you?” Sylar is all seriousness with no hint of a smirk.

_Absolutely._

“No.” Mohinder moves his right hand to the center of Sylar’s chest and presses his palm flat while simultaneously pulling his left hand free of Sylar’s touch.

Sylar purses his lips and tilts his head forward, keeping his sights trained on Mohinder. The effect is chilling and arousing (and Mohinder doesn’t want to consider what that says about his own psyche). Sylar leans into Mohinder’s halting gesture.

“No,” Mohinder repeats forcefully as he tries to clear his head but can’t stop feeling the heat coming off of Sylar’s body.

“No?” Sylar quirks an eyebrow at the challenge as if it is meant to be undone and he is readying to go.

It is reminiscent enough of the old calculating Sylar that it reinforces Mohinder’s steadfast composure to stay the course of his own conviction, at least as much as he can. Firmly he shoves Sylar back an inch. “Despite what you might think, this isn’t happening. Not here. Not now.”

“As if you don’t want this.”

“As if you know the first thing about what I want.”

Sylar flinches at the retort and Mohinder is emboldened to continue. “Just because you say jump don’t purport to think I’ll ask how high.”

“You really think you have a choice in the matter?” Sylar’s tone is flat yet encouraging; ascertaining which direction their game is going.

“My being here—_letting_ you close—is entirely my doing.” Mohinder pushes his right index finger hard against Sylar’s chest, enjoying keeping him at bay.

Sylar scoffs. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He grabs Mohinder’s hand and squeezes it.

“Why not? The all powerful Sylar unable to take what he wants?” Mohinder’s words are more suggestive than intended but it is too late to take them back and he already feels his defensive walls cracking.

Sylar nudges him forward with an invisible touch.

Mohinder grits his teeth and tries to fight it. “Yes of course, _making me_ certainly disproves my point.”

A second, then two pass and Sylar narrows his eyes contemplatively before turning up a small smile. “Is that so?” He sparks an electric currant against Mohinder’s hand that makes him jump and glare. “Then this is just some one sided lament and if I walked away…”

_Again._

The word remains unspoken as a threat and an apology. Although it calls to mind their last quarrel, the very reality of the two of them back together in this moment finds Mohinder trying to fight his own urge to smile in response, mentally chastising himself for letting Sylar push his buttons.

Sylar shifts forward and, letting go of Mohinder’s hand, cups the side of his neck. “It’s been too long,” he says reverently.

Staring deep into Sylar’s eyes, feeling the heat of his hand against his skin, inhaling the musky scent only slightly accented by soap, Mohinder cannot help but admit, “I know.”

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

“Exclusivity,” Mohinder rolls the word off his tongue slowly like it doesn’t quite fit in his mouth and he needs to work his way around its odd edges, “is not part of the deal.”

Standing up from the bed, clad in only a pair of worn blue jeans that sit low on his hips, he folds his left arm across his chest and raises his right hand to take another bite of his half eaten apple. A couple of feet away from him Sylar stands by the window, peaking past the curtains, dressed in only a long pair of black cotton drawstring pants—his pair specifically that have come to find a permanent residence in the last drawer of Mohinder’s dresser.

Sylar casts a furtive glance his way and drops his hands to his side. “We have a deal?”

There is a teasing edge to the question but not enough to deflect from the seriousness of the discussion that has unexpectedly stirred the morning quiet. Mohinder narrows his eyes in annoyance and lowers the apple to his side.

“What would you call this?” Mohinder knows that he is also reaching for a definition that makes sense of what they have embarked on.

It is way more than reckless sex culminating in a series of one-night stands. It is a far cry from the emotionless need to just connect with another person who may as well be faceless as long as he is present and doling out what is required in return. Those are superficial realms that don’t apply to them and never have.

_They_ have always been something else, despite insistences to the contrary. Between them words have never been empty vessels used to fill the space. Each utterance, declaration, lament and promise (be it a veiled threat or a genuine offering) is purposeful. It is a fact that Mohinder has found himself relying on and drawn to while all around him smoke and mirrors cloud the “truth” of others. There has always been intent—to hurt, to elicit, to undo, to transform—and they have been twisted and turned within its rapture.

Truly, Sylar is the one person who Mohinder feels gets him with all the failings and accomplishments that have marred and decorated Mohinder’s life. And he ventures to say that the same is true with regards to Sylar’s consideration for him. That honesty may be revealed as much in bitter words and bloodletting wounds as it is in subdued reflections and ticklish touches.

They are a messy rendering of—

_Companionship? Domesticity? Lo—_

_Something._

And they keep coming back for more.

Science brought them haphazardly together but they are not bound by it. The ghostly whispers of the dead that trail their path do not echo deafeningly to the exclusion of all else. They are paradoxical conversations that stretch minutes into hours; restless theories spun thick and complex while the world steps back, unable to fully infringe on precarious territory. They are professional combativeness moving towards the same nucleus and personal contemplations that (unsurprisingly?) recognize the complimentary other—a wandering being, unhitched but lost, always behind an elusive father figure, but actually five steps ahead.

Silence is yet another language they are well versed in, where a glare is as readable as a retort and a hidden smile is as definitive as resigned acceptance. They have seen each other at their worst, even inflicted it at times, but where it was once meant to be detrimental, now it is yet another chapter to a most riddling story. It is everything and suddenly Mohinder feels his chest constrict and his breathing shallow.

_What would you call this?_

What twists his stomach is that he is not sure he wants a way out. But what then? They are secrets and lies, but not with each other. No, they are the hushed misdeed and tragic tale kept from all the rest who would rip the pages out and burn the book if the truth were known. Bonfires are in their nature.

Sylar scratches his stomach and Mohinder’s gaze drops, momentarily drawn to the dark hair that mats his pale chest. For a split second the memory of being pressed together, their bodies sticky with sweat, limbs entangled, eyes unblinking and lips wet, flushes over Mohinder and he has to force his attention back up. Judging by the tiny pull at the corner of Sylar’s mouth, Mohinder knows his reaction has not gone unnoticed or unappreciated. Knowing Sylar, however, it also means that the pendulum has swung to the far corner.

Sylar regards him thoughtfully. “Nothing.” His tone is cool and jarring given the heated remembrance they are both mindful of. Sylar angles his head back to gaze condescendingly down his nose. “This is just a mistake you keep making over and over again, isn’t that right Mohinder?”

Mohinder rolls his eyes. “I didn’t say that.” He is aware that Sylar is trying to get a rise out of him, something he is an expert at, but Mohinder cannot help being defensive when called out for not proclaiming himself one way or the other.

Sylar steps forward, tilting his head down and to the side. “And I said nothing about _going steady_.” Distaste coats his words making Mohinder feel he should be embarrassed for thinking such a thing.

Mohinder’s face stings with a flustered heat although he is sure that Sylar’s posturing is just as likely a defense mechanism. Sternly he begins, “I hardly implied—,”

“That I’m looking for some archaic trapping?” Sylar reaches for the apple in Mohinder’s hand and yanks it free, taking a big bite and swallowing dramatically after only a couple of chews. He holds the apple up to Mohinder’s face, slowly gesturing it back and forth to emphasize a patronizing point. “Don’t make the mistake of reading into things that aren’t there. My inquiring about who else you may be _seeing_ was nothing more than a curiosity; polite conversation if you will.”

Mohinder snatches the apple back and grips it tightly in his hand down by his side. He wills a tight smile in place and laughs. “I guess I can’t fault you for thinking the question polite, given your upbringing.”

Sylar’s eye twitches and Mohinder briefly revels in the low blow. Bringing up the past is always a touchy subject for them and usually—_lately_—it is done with far more respect and mutual understanding. Mohinder using a past confession at his moment with the intent to belittle is pointed.

“When have you ever just made conversation?” Mohinder changes the subject. “You don’t waste your words, like your time or consideration.”   
Mohinder takes a step forward, holding Sylar’s gaze. He could walk away and end this scene but his own curiosity is piqued and he realizes he is listening—_hoping_—for the words that will click all the pieces into place.

“So perceptive,” Sylar taunts. “You’ve got me all figured out.”

A nearly imperceptible crackling sound sparks from his hands and Mohinder considers the possibility that Sylar may very well electrocute him as a reminder of the one area in which they are not on equal footing, a certain reaction to Mohinder rebuking Sylar’s childhood. Yet just as confusing is that Sylar doesn’t sound angry as much as he sounds annoyed.

_Why do you care? What do you want to hear? What do I (not) want to admit?_

There is tension in the strong lines of Sylar’s shoulder and his rigid stance, refusing to allow any backtracking. It is a dare, to be sure, but with consequences Mohinder does not want to deal with. For now the status quo will do.

Sighing, Mohinder lowers his voice and fervently asks, “Do we really have to talk about this?”

Sylar hesitates before he flippantly replies. “Of course not.” He steps back and the gap between them feels strangely insurmountable and avoidable. He lifts his hands to the air and shrugs dismissively. “You’re apparently dictating the terms for our…”

He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “_Indiscretions_ and how many other ones you’re still fumbling through.”

It is a low blow right back as Sylar uses one of Mohinder’s early morning pillow talk sessions in which he recalled some embarrassing sexual mishaps begat of nervousness during his university days. Any and everyone had similar stories, but Mohinder’s admission was not meant for shared mockery. Rather it was told to explain his understanding of Sylar’s uncertainty their first (few) times.

As an endearment its intention was that despite Mohinder’s experience, being with Sylar was all together different, that it was new all over again, but that it made sense in a way it hadn’t before. Sylar’s words, so precisely struck, flood nostalgic feelings of self-doubt. Mohinder hates him for it.

He places the partially eaten apple on the windowsill, only briefly looking away from Sylar’s dark stare. But before he can tell Sylar to get the hell out of his flat Sylar beats him to the punch.

“I’ll go.”

Mohinder wrinkles his brow in surprise.

Sylar picks up his discarded shirt from the floor and rolls it up in his hands. “I wouldn’t want to overstay my visit. Might _confuse_ things.”

He walks out of the room Mohinder listens as his footsteps move to the bathroom.

 

************ ********** ********** ********** ************

 

Mohinder twists his index finger so that it gathers the material of Sylar’s shirt around and pulls him forward while doing his own part to eliminate any space left between them. The second their lips meet, Mohinder pushes Sylar that half a step back with a thud against the door.

The kiss is at once desperate and languid. With parted mouths and returned (muffled) moans, they flick their tongues across coaxing lips, sucking and keening, and revel in the long denied intoxicating and nearly debilitating taste of one another

Sylar’s right hand is tight around the side of Mohinder’s neck and he slides his other arm around Mohinder’s hips and down to the curve of his ass, pushing their bodies flushed together. In the constricted space Mohinder is suddenly conscious of the fact that he cannot pull his finger free from the knot he has created with Sylar’s shirt so he painstakingly forces his left hand between them and down to the zipper on Sylar’s jeans.

_You. Just you._

Sylar grunts against Mohinder’s mouth and for a confused moment Mohinder doesn’t know if he said anything out loud that Sylar is responding to or if Sylar is reacting to Mohinder’s hand stroking him through his pants. Suddenly Sylar pulls Mohinder even closer, effectively trapping Mohinder’s arms and throwing all train of distracted thought out the window. Getting forceful, Mohinder shoves backwards out of the hold, just enough to try to free his left arm. In the process he scrapes one knuckle across the zipper’s teeth and gasps at the shot of pain that pulses quick.

Sylar leans into him to deepen the kiss while at the same emitting a light chuckle over the “injury”. Mohinder pushes him hard against he door and causes him to slam his head.

“Ow!” Sylar yells, opening his eyes and glaring.

Breathing deeply, they stare each other down, refusing to look away. Two pairs of dark eyes pour out what has been brewing during their time apart and the undeniable need to make up for lost time. Sylar’s eyes flit down to Mohinder’s mouth at the same time that Mohinder licks his lips. Matching grins greet one another before Sylar (with the help of telekinesis) is forcing Mohinder back, catching his knees at the edge of the toilet and nearly contorting him over.

Mohinder fights to stay upright and jerks his finger free from Sylar’s shirt, hitting his elbow against the wall. Ignoring the ache he uses Sylar as leverage by wrapping his hands around the back of his head and pushing up with his hips to meet Sylar’s, pulling him back into another kiss.

His gamble works as Sylar’s relaxes his aggressive posturing and Mohinder is able to control both their movements back against he door. He is getting impossibly hard himself and would love nothing more than to make up with Sylar the more than two weeks they had no contact because _this_ is far too right to care whether it makes sense; because being wrapped up in Sylar and _knowing_ the same goes for this other man who refuses—_can’t_—stay away is their fated punishment they eagerly consume. But the airplane washroom with over four hundred people on the other side is not the way Mohinder wants to do it and he wills himself to pull out of the kiss. Shifting his hands down Sylar’s shoulders to his chest he holds them there to keep him pinned in place.

He waits for Sylar to open his blown wide eyes and refocus on the here and now.

“Not here,” Mohinder says.

Sylar tenses then masks his disappointment. Mohinder brings his hand to Sylar’s face and fingers the scruff that gives his visage a more ominous appearance even with the flush of pink in his cheeks.

“We can do better than this,” Mohinder promises.

Sylar has no immediate reaction then brings his hand to Mohinder’s face and gently drags his thumb across his bottom lip. “Absolutely,” is his muted reply accompanied by half a smile.

Slowly they part and straighten their clothes out. Sylar, with a glance at Mohinder to make sure he is presentable, opens the door and two of them come face-to-face with a very surprised but ultimately unimpressed flight attendant.

“Gentlemen. I suggest you take your seats,” she reprimands them, furrowing her brow.

“We were getting to that,” Sylar jokes coolly, right back in character.

Mohinder follows him out and apologizes to the flight attendant who is eyeing him like a parent scolding a child. He notices that Sylar has stepped aside to let him go first on the way back to their seats which are spread out a couple of rows apart more than halfway down the aisle.

Mohinder fixes an annoyed look in place complete with narrowed eyes, a lined brow and a scowl, and goes on his way. Halfway there he sees Bennet stand up quickly ahead of him and Mohinder rolls his eyes for effect.

Bennet looks past him at Sylar, then back to Mohinder. “You two better cool it,” he orders quietly. “I know working together is a lot to ask, but I need you two to deal with it. We have bigger concerns than you two hating each other.”

“Then tell him not to corner me,” Mohinder says incredulously.

Sylar shoves his shoulder and Mohinder turns to glare.

“I was told to baby-sit you,” Sylar says mockingly. “Apparently I drew the short stick.” He pushes by Mohinder and Bennet and settles in his seat four rows down in the center section next to the aisle.

Mohinder purses his lips and levels a pissed off look at Bennet.

“It’ll be over soon enough,” Bennet sighs, his aggravation at having to parent them obvious. “Let’s just make it through the plane ride,” he adds as he sits down again and shuts his eyes.

Mohinder walks two rows down to his seat, next to the aisle, but in the window section. Grasping the top of the seat in front of his he meets Sylar’s steady gaze from across the way. Through the facades of callous indifference and rapt repulsion two invisible smiles crinkle at the corners

Mohinder swings into his row and sits down. With time to kill, all he can do is think about when they can steal their next bit of time together.  
  


End file.
